


Diamonds Are Cheap and Talk Is Cheaper

by laulan



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10031870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laulan/pseuds/laulan
Summary: Arthur wants to see Ariadne in pearls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The excellent and astute [deaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deastar) suggested, way back when I first posted this, that this should be a letter Arthur wrote, and I think that's an excellent idea and so I'm saying that's what this is!

Here. Let me set the scene:  
  
Hotel restaurant. The place is dim, but there's a chandelier hanging high above to give some glittering ambiance; the crystal wine glasses and the fancy silverware are picking up little bits of light and reflecting them back onto walls, skin, carpet, whatever, so that everything looks a little magical. It's a jacket and tie restaurant, so everyone is dressed to the nines: cocktail dresses, thousand-dollar shoes, cufflinks and tie pins and diamonds. Every girl in this place is wearing diamonds, just about.  
  
You, though.  
  
You don't need diamonds.  
  
You're wearing a pearl necklace--white pearls, classic. You don't mess with classics, after all. And a little black dress, maybe, satin--yeah. A little black satin dress, with a sweetheart neckline and a pencil skirt, hugging your ass tight and whispering over your skin when you cross your legs. Only the tops of your thighs, though, because you're wearing hose and garters, the works, with a pair of black kitten heels to top it all off. (You strike me as a kitten heels kind of girl--stilettos wouldn't do those perfect legs of yours justice. Understated and subtle, that's you, Ariadne. Leave the obvious look for some other girl; you're a class act if I ever saw one.)  
  
I'm sitting across from you. I'm wearing a waistcoat and single-breasted jacket in black wool--Armani, of course, nothing less for a place like this. Trousers too, creases starched in, and a stiff white shirt. (Edward Green Dover Split Toe shoes, if you're curious.) My tie is steel gray, and I'm not wearing a tie pin because I hate the damn things, but my cufflinks are made of amber and silver. We're drinking a crisp two-year-old Riesling, and the music playing the background is Vivaldi. The waiter's come and gone; I'm having the chicken, and you ordered the ravioli.  
  
Your hair is swept up, but there's a tendril brushing your neck, by your pearls. I reach out to curl it around my finger and you shiver a little, but you give me that smirk all the same. That _Really? This again?_ smirk. I give you a little one of my own-- _can't blame a guy for trying,_ I murmur, and you roll your eyes but your lips are curving up and your pulse is kicking higher and somewhere at the bottom of your stomach there's a tug of arousal, hot and bright.  
  
 _We're on the job, Arthur,_ you say back, so soft your words are barely more than air on your lips. The corners of your eyes are still smiling, though, so I know you don't really mean that I should stop. I change my tactic--I move my thumb to catch the curve of a pearl, resting on the edge of your shoulder. I stroke the line of them, taking care not to touch your throat; waiting, waiting, waiting for a signal, a sign that _now_ I'm crossing a line and need to back off. You don't give me one. What you give me is a hint of pink on your cheeks and an eyebrow raised in challenge-- _Is that all you've got?_  
  
Because for once you're curious enough to want to see where this goes. For once, you're open to suggestions.  
  
I don't believe it, but I'm never one to turn away an opportunity. So I let myself keep going. I touch your pearls and I touch your skin over and over again, and the room gets hotter and closer and full of our breathing. It goes deep fast, and you're reeling, suddenly, shallow-breathed and burning up and just reeling at how far you're really willing to take it this time. My eyes are locked on yours, saying all the same things back to you. Our blood might very well be racing; my heart certainly is.  
  
You never imagined I had it in me, did you? Never dreamed I'd twist you around and get you so hot and bothered from just one touch, just one very intent touch with my eyes telling you exactly how I want you, but I'm telling you, Ariadne: the most compelling thing in the world is knowing someone wants you. Knowing how much I want you, how fast you can feel my heart beating in my fingertips from just getting to touch you--it makes you ache, makes you want to spread your knees apart and push me down on the floor till you have what you need.  
  
You start thinking about taking me upstairs: letting me fuck you against the wall, barely out of our clothes and your pearls still on; tying me up on the bed and making me moan and beg; putting your hand in my hair and guiding my mouth between your legs to lick over the slick pretty folds of your cunt and suck your clit, hard--to crook my fingers in you till you arch up and come. You're wet underneath your dress and I'm hard and aching in my slacks and we're both barely breathing. I want you. I want you. (I could never say that too many times, because it's always true.)  
  
My hands are electric on your skin. I hook a finger under your necklace and touch the hollow of your throat. You smile. You feel daring, wearing those pearls, adventurous, beautiful--Christ, you _are_ beautiful. You're the most beautiful woman in the room and you don't need me to tell it to you; you never needed someone to complete you, fill in the blank parts of you, because you were whole before any of us ever met you. That's why I can't get you out of my head, you know that? You know that?  
  
Your eyes are still laughing at me. _Arthur,_ you scold, hiding your smile, and your shiver, at the feel of my thumbnail tracing over your collarbone. Your voice is honey-smooth, warm, dark. You're taking all the control back, making me chase you so hard. _Cut the act, smooth guy,_ you murmur.  
  
And I'm impatient, suddenly. I just can't stand it anymore. You're right in front of me; you're wearing pearls; you're smiling and you're waiting and you're not saying no.  
  
 _Who says it's an act?_ I demand.  
  
And I lean over and kiss you. (God, I want to kiss you. You know that, right? All the time, all the goddamn time.) My hand resting heavy on your shoulder, my mouth on yours, my tongue touching your bottom lip. My fingers in your pearls because physicality is irrational and my body doesn't want to let yours go.  
  
You kiss back--oh, do you ever kiss back. You're long past gentle, and that just gets to me like you wouldn't believe. We kiss, and I brush my shoe against yours under the table while you drag your teeth over my tongue; you scrape your knee over the inside of my thigh, and that's it, that's all I can stand, at least in public. We've got to get out of here. My hand curls over your wrist and I'm calling for the check before we've even eaten, loud and obvious and too wound up to give a damn. We leave the restaurant and we go upstairs and we press against each other in the elevator because we can't bear it and--well.  
  
You can guess. I think you can guess what happens next.  
  
So. You asked me to tell you what I want, and there it is. That's it. That's what I want. What do you say? We could make it all happen, you know--If you want me like I want you, I mean. You know that, right?  
  
All you have to do is say the word and I'm all yours, sweetheart. All yours.


End file.
